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A Body in a New Place
A Body in a New Place is the series premiere of Freight (Season 1). Description A match is lit and a body wakes. Episode Now The ringing in my ears won't stop. I try to open my eyes. Everything is so blurry. I feel like I am laying on something soft. A bed. No, a cot. My vision is getting clearer every second. I move my hands up to my face to caress it. As they both touch my face, I feel something is wrong. My left hand feels perfectly normal. But my right hand… I hold up my right hand to the light of the room. My vision is better now. In the place of where my right hand once was… was now being occupied by a piece of black metal in the shape of a hand. I try moving it. The fingers I want to move that I visualize are the ones that are moving right in front of my face. I make a fist, then open it, then wiggle my fingers. My wrist is smooth. The place where metal ends and flesh begins is connected. If it weren’t for the metal being sleek black, you couldn’t tell that I had a cybernetic hand. Everything else is intact. There aren’t any more missing body parts. Especially not any that are replaced by metal. I sit up and look around the room. The room was pitch white with a door, a deskside table next to the cot, and a mirror. The cot I was lying on was near the floor. I was wearing a hospital gown. I wince at the soreness. How long was I out? I don’t remember anything before this. I only remember Moira was there and… The door opens. In stepped Mr. Freight with a woman. He is holding up a suitcase and she is holding a clipboard. His face lights up as he sees me. “Thank God!” he says with a smile, “Welcome back to the land of the living! How’s the hand treating you?” he said in Russian as he motions to my hand. I looked down at it and hold it up for him to see. “Uh, yeah… thank you for the… gift. I really appreciate it.” I say moving it around. I look up at him. “What happened?” Mr. Freight opens his mouth to say something, but the woman stops him. She shakes her head and says something to him quietly. Mr. Freight frowns and looks at me. “Let’s just say it was nasty.” I nod my head, looking away, pursing my lips. “When can I go home?” His face brightens up slightly. “Right now, actually!” he turns to the woman, who in turn gives him a piece of paper from her clipboard. “You’re free to go.” she also said in Russian, smiling softly as she walks down the hallway. Something was off about her. Maybe it was that she didn’t look like a doctor; or that she seems really low energy. Even by hospital standards. I stand up and stretch. My legs feel like they haven’t been used in a while. Mr. Freight sets the suitcase down on a table and opens it. Inside is a long sleeved white shirt with a navy sweater. Underneath that is a folded pair of jeans with a black belt and white underpants. “I’ll be outside.” he says as he steps out. I go over to the case and start to dress. I tuck the white shirt into my pants and put the belt on. It is surprisingly difficult to get dressed with this hand. It is like I have to keep “pressing” down to keep the grip on the clothes. I zip up the sweater halfway and check the pockets of the case. I find white socks and black shoes. After I put those on, I close the suitcase and look at myself in the mirror. I look like a million bucks. I smirked and struck a pose in the mirror, with both hands in my sweater pockets. I felt something in them. Black gloves. Score. I put the gloves on and try them out. Cool. The gloves hide the fact that my right hand is artificial. If it wasn’t that top of that hand had a glowing circle. You can barely tell it is there unless you stare at it and you know what to look for. I grab the suitcase and walked outside to where Mr. Freight was standing. “Ah. Good.” he says taking me in, putting his hands on my shoulders. “Sharp.” I smile and we walk out of… the place. “So what was that place?” I ask as we step out into the outside world. “Just a clinic.” he says without meeting my eyes. “Mmmhm.” I hum. “Since when do clinics hire doctors without unifor-” I stop. I take a look around the streets. Mr. Freight steps into the car Mr. Sergio was waiting outside of. “You go?” Mr. Sergio said in English as he walked back to the driver’s seat. I fade back into reality. “Uh, yeah, yeah, let’s go.” I say in Russian as I get into the backseat. Thirty seconds after Mr. Sergio starts driving, I begin asking questions. “My hand,” I say. “...what is it made of?” “Secret.” Mr. Freight said without looking back. “What’s it powered by?” I ask looking down at the faint circular glow. “Classified.” “What happened to me?” “Unauthorized.” “Where are we going?” “Private… Airport.” “Why are we in Mother Russia?!” I ask. I try very hard to keep myself from losing it. “I’m sorry.” Mr. Freight says in English this time. “There is a lot you don’t understand here.” He looks back at me from shotgun. “In our line of work, you have to learn to accept answers like they are. Be grateful that you have all your limbs.” Just as he finishes, Mr. Sergio screamed something and a car blew past a stop sign and collided with ours. A few seconds later, as I hung upside down from my seat, I could see both men lying there, immobilized. I clenched my eyes shut and tried to move my head. I open them to see two pair of feet walking towards us. That was the last thing I remember before losing consciousness. Two Years Ago In a brightly lit empty gym in a high school, a boy appears to be training extensively. Beating a punching bag senselessly. Each blow filled with more fury. The boy immersed himself in the moment, becoming a blur of punches. “Chill.” said a voice behind him. The fit boy stopped and glared behind him. “What did that bag ever do to you?” the kid who entered said. The fit boy ignored the question and walked to the bleachers. “Am I getting better?” he asked. As they both reached the bleachers, the fit boy began dabbing himself with a towel and starting downing his water bottle. “Well, you sure as cuss aren’t getting worse.” The fit boy stopped drinking and gasped for air. “What do you want, Paul?” The boy named “Paul” spoke. “Irena Freight is having a party tomorrow night. Wanted you to go with me.” The fit boy stopped putting his stuff in his bag and looked up at Paul. “...although I’m flattered, I… only see you as a friend.” Paul rolled his eyes. “No, nimbus, I meant you could be my wingman! I’m not sure you heard, but there are going to be broads from Queenton!” The bell rang. The fit boy continued to put away his stuff. Typical Paul. He never thought with his head. Of course he would do anything to get into some party where the majority would be girls. “Mmm-hmm. Can’t go. Not invited. Why don’t you ask De’Andre or someone.” he said as he took off his gym clothes right there, and began putting on fresh clothes. Right there in front of Paul. “De’Andre isn’t invited. Plus, he’s not into broads.” Paul said as the fit boy zipped up his bag and flung it over his shoulder and began walking out. “How did you get invited?” the fit boy asked. “...I wasn’t.” Paul finally said. The fit boy just shook his head. “And how exactly were you planning on getting in?” “Some friends and I planned to walk up there carrying a keg.” Paul said as the two walked out the gym door and towards their first class of the day. “She can’t turn us down if we bring a little party gift.” “...do I want to know where you guys got a keg?” “Nope!” Paul said, smiling. “...fine. Only because there’s nothing on TV tonight.” “Thanks, Art. You’re the best.” Now I feel like I got run over by a cement mixer. I hear footsteps walk up to me. Before I know it, a hurricane passes by with ice water. I begin coughing as I open my eyes. My vision clears to see a woman. She is black haired and appeared to be middle aged. She leans over me, holding a wooden bucket. “Well,” she said in Russian. “Look what the cat dragged.” With rage boiling inside me, I try to get my hands around her neck, but I couldn’t. I appeared to be tied like a pig. “Who are you?!” I said in English, clearly not thinking of anything better to say. She just smirked. “Just an interested third party.” she pulls up a chair from a corner of the dimly lit room. “Now… I’m sure you have questions.” she says sitting down in front of me. “Yeah. Are you single?” I say, smirking with my head down. “I just want you to know that no harm will fall upon you if you cooperate.” she says, ignoring my comment. Man, if I could get my hands free, I could get out of here. “I think there’s been an error,” I say looking back up at her. “I’m not even supposed to be here in Mother Russia.” “You are Moriarty Croix, yes?” she said, looking into my eyes. I think about lying. But I don’t want to get started on the wrong foot. “Yes, ma’am, I am.” Her expression remains the same. “And for the past two years you have been… fraternizing with the Kakossian’s?” I don’t know what this lady wants, but if she went through all the trouble of staging a car crash in the city and moving me to a remote location, I must assume it’s something bad. “I have no idea who the Kakassion’s are.” I said. She nods and took out two thick needles from her pockets. They seemed to be attached to something via wires. Without warning, she stabs one of them in each leg! “Son of a BITCH!” I screamed. “Are you sure?” she says, holding up a small box she produced from her other pocket. The needles seemed to be wired to the box. I don’t know much about technology, but even a rural country boy knows an electric generator when he sees one. “What do you want with them?!” I yelled. She smiles, knowing I just confirmed it. “They are an obstacle that are in the way of some goals of mine.” she says, still holding up the box. “I just want to know where they are. I have to thank you. Looking at you and your history with the rather… fascinating events you have done in your home state, I wouldn’t have found them. And Alexander bringing you to Russia made my suspicions confirmed.” she leaned in. “Why did he take you here?” “I honestly don’t know! I just woke up… in a clinic! I do not know what they did to me!” She hesitates. “Very well, then.” she leaned in closer. “Tell me what you know and you be rewarded.” she whispered in my ear. I don’t know whether to be turned on or scared for my life right now. But Moira was the only thing on my mind. “Well, I don’t know what to tell you, Ms…” I looked at her expectantly. She didn’t say anything. “...I don’t know what they were doing.” She pauses for a few seconds before flipping a switch on the box. Two Years Ago After school, Art drove over to the city of Boise. It was like this every time he had a match. Getting told a opening, taking a deal, tell his parents he was going out, driving 10 minutes to urban Idaho, and winning said match. He always told his parents that he got a job in the city. That wasn’t a lie. He got good money even if he lost! After finding parking, he walked onto the sidewalk and began walking to his destination. He stumbled upon a deli. “Hey, Bobby.” he said as he walked in. “Hey.” Bobby said as he got out from behind the counter and led Art to the back. On the outside, Bobby’s was just a regular family owned deli in an urban territory. On the inside it actually has a passageway to an underground territory. There are multiple entrances to the place (the regulars called it “Nemesis”), but Bobby’s passage in particular led to the dressing rooms. Art is what you would call a “favored regular”. When they got to the back, Bobby pressed the back wall and it slid open revealing a room. A room with a closet door. A closet door that had a thick wooden ladder leading to the underground. After Art climbed down the ladder, he walked down a hallway. Passing doors with some of the regulars’ rooms with their names on it. He got to his door and went in. His dressing room was home away from home. Filled with everything a favored underage champion could need. Mini-fridge, posters of superheroes, and a bed (That’s right, a real bed. Not a cot or air mattress). Art got to his desk and pushed a button on it. On the wall to the opposite of it, a panel lifted to unveil a glassed chamber with his suit. His suit was both durable and glamorous. It was an all white suit with pads and buckles. Great for staying alive and standing out from the crowd. The suit was designed to cover everything on his body. The only skin showing was the skin around his mouth. Even the eye sockets have small reflection lenses. The helmet was made out of kevlar with hard plastic. When you put on the helmet, there are knobs covering the ears. When you turn them, the lower half of the face tightens. Good for taking it off and making sure it won’t fall off from his neck piece. Art opened the chamber and began putting on the suit that cost more than his house. “In this corner, we have 200 pound challenger, Mr. Second Banana who just wants an easy compensation of half a grand! Introducing… Maximillian Morningstar!” the announcer said into the microphone. The crowd erupted as Morningstar entered the cage ring wearing only green shorts. When he got to the ring, he made a big show of his fit body the way a WWE wrestler would do. “And in this corner, your favorite, and mine! In all his years of playing here, has soon become a revolutionist, a real alpha, please welcome, the one and only, White Alpha!” The crowd burst out in an even louder applause when Art walked out wearing his white “White Alpha” costume, hands raised. Unlike Morningstar, he didn’t boast. “RAAHHH!!!” Morningstar yelled into a camera. “I’M ‘ONNA DES'TROY' ‘IM!!!” Art just smiled at this. He loved how ridiculous professional fighters were before showing their real strength. It may work in wrestling, but in illegal MMA fighting, that just shows weakness. A man who puts his fists where his mouth is is a show-off. WWE is just a soap opera for men. It’s all about the show and the rivalry. If it was just about the fighting, people would not cult about it. Plus the fights are staged. This is real life. Both men took their positions on each end of the ring and struck poses as the host stood in the center. “All right, guys, I want a clean fight, okay? Nothing below the belt and above the kneecaps, all right? No choking or anything that suffocates, okay? If at any point you aren’t feeling well, you forfeit, all right? But know in doing so, you will get a lower check and it says so…” Art zoned out. He has heard this set up dozens of times before. He began to look around the crowd. Even for a Thursday night, this place was packed. Maybe that’s why Mr. O’Shay was willing to pay extra for a last minute contact. Some important people must be here. So of course he would want to show Art off. That feeling never got old. The feeling of being idolized. Standing in front of hundreds of screaming fans. Being adored without people knowing who you really are. He looked to the side and saw himself in one of the two screens to the side of the ring. “All right!” the host yelled. “Fight!” he said as he moved to the side. White Alpha moved first towards Morningstar, fist raised to his face. When he got to arms length, he began swinging, hitting each time before Morningstar had time to react. Morningstar went low when he was still being hit, right for White Alpha’s gut. White Alpha saw this and blocked his punch as Morningstar touched White Alpha’s stomach. White Alpha held Morningstar’s fist there with both hands. Before Morningstar got a chance to get up from his duck and strike with his left fist, White Alpha turned his hands over his head, pinning Morningstar’s arm behind his back and holding it there. Morningstar yelped in pain. “Yield!” White Alpha said in Morningstar’s ear. Morningstar grabbed White Alpha’s arms with his pinned hand and fell forward, taking White Alpha with him, flipping him on his back, releasing White Alpha’s grip. White Alpha groaned and got up while Morningstar kicked the air where White Alpha’s head was. White Alpha got back up and began stepping back, away from Morningstar. Morningstar quickly closed the distance between them, backing White Alpha into the edge, and began throwing punches. White Alpha took a few blows and fell to the ground, rolling out of his way. When he got up, backs facing each other, White Alpha kicked Morningstar’s knee, dropping him. White Alpha then got on his back and pulled him to the ground, laying on top of him, grabbing him in a headlock. After a few seconds of wriggling, Morningstar finally tapped the ground. The host blew the airhorn around and White Alpha got up and rose his arms in victory. Maximillian Morningstar, however, did not react so professionally. He started growling and screaming at the crowd, saying it was so unfair. He stormed out of the ring with a cameraman following behind him. Art smiled as he began enjoying his victory with the crowd, smoothly answering any of the host’s questions in front of a camera. Now When I wake up, I am lying in a different room. This one has an actual bed. A metalic bed. My head still felt like scrambled eggs after the woman with… the body of an amazon electrocuted me. This bed is uncomfortable. No surprise here. I try looking around, but it is pitch black in here. The only light was in the cracks of the door, I imagine? I roll off and crawl towards the door. On the floor close to the door, is a small bowl of white rice. My stomach growls. I hadn’t eaten since before I woke up in that clinic. And who knows how long I’ve been sleeping. I sit down, crisscross and put the bowl in my lap. As I scoop up a handful, a voice behind me speaks. “That’s supposed to be for the both of us.” I turn, startled, dropping the bowl of rice, scattering grains all over the floor. The person struggles to get up. When he… no, she did, I noticed she was lying on another metal bed. This one was a plank connected to the wall. “Pick those grains up and put them back in the bowl.” she says in a hoarse voice. I do what I was told, not wanting to upset the ethnically diverse stranger. She is a rather grimy looking woman with a long green dress that at one point I assume was emerald. She wasn’t showing a lot of skin, just her face, arms and calves. From what I CAN see, she is so skinny, I thought she would faint at any moment. I could probably break her legs like a twig judging from where I was sitting. Not to be rude, but she looks like shit. Smells like it, too. That’s when it hit me. There is no toilet in here. “Um… hi.” I said, putting the bowl back on the ground. “...what’s your name?” I said, not knowing what else to say. I decided to be friendly towards the person I was going to spend the next eternity with. “I’m Art.” She just stood up and walks over to me. She sits down and begins to pick up a few of the dirty rice. I can hear the crunch of the gravel on the rice as she chews. I honestly feel more bad for her than I did for myself. I still have a long way to go before I starve or look ill. She swallows harshly and looks up at me. For a moment, I thought I saw a glimmer in her eyes. Like she was happy to see another friendly face. “Yazmine. Duncard.” I pursed my lips into a small smile. “Nice to meet you, Ms. Duncard.” I said as she takes a few more grains and gets up and sit on her own bed. I look to the door and observe it, not wanting to eat the only thing keeping her alive. The were a few incisions on the door, which I’m sure opened to deliver stuff. I tried opening it with my left hand. I just couldn’t get a grip on it, not even with the glove off. I grunted as I gave up. I turned back to Ms. Duncard. “What do we do if we need to go to the toilet?” I asked her. She looks up at me, then at the ground. I followed her gaze to where she was looking. She was looking at the drain on the floor. Hell no. Two Years Ago Art stepped into his dressing room and took off his helmet by untightening the ear knobs. He set his helmet on a desk and switch on the TV up on the wall and started to take off his costume. The screen showed Morningstar throwing a tantrum in his dressing room earlier in the evening. At first he was slowly pacing around the room and made his way to a couch. He picked it up with no struggle and threw it across the room, shattering a shelf with valuables. “Max,” said the woman holding the camera. “Any comment on your humiliating defeat while I.M.M.A.F. was in the building?” Morningstar stopped destroying his room enough to get close to the camera. “That no good Beep! has another thing coming! Life was perfect before that little white bitch! I''' was the top dog! Not that no good, dirty, rot-” Art turned off the TV and walked back out to the hall in his regular outfit. He walked around to the owner’s office on the other side on Nemesis. He could still hear the crowd’s cheering at the next wave of fighters as he walked up to the owner’s office door. The door read “Ricochet” on it. Another person pulled up beside him. “Hey, Moriarty.” said Maximilian Morningstar, holding his hand out. “Hey, Marion.” Art said to him, taking his hand and pulling him in. They both slapped each other’s back with their free hand before pulling away. Art knocked on the door and turned the knob. The office looked more decorative than Art’s own dressing room. The walls were filled with posters of WWE wrestlers. The shelves were filled with all sorts of boxing memorabilia. The man sitting at the desk across the room was an elderly man with white hair. He turned from the TV up in the corner to acknowledge the men. “Gentleman,” he said. “Mr. O’Shay.” Art said. “Rick.” said ‘Marion’ Morningstar. Rick O’Shay handed both men envelopes with their names written on them with big capital letters. “WHITE ALPHA” and “M. MORNINGSTAR.” Inside of Art’s envelope were twenty-five $100 bills. He counted all of them before thanking O’Shay and turning to leave. “Wait!” called out Morningstar. “Don’t you wanna know why I.M.M.A.F. was here?” “Nope.” Art said before walking out, being sure to close the door behind him. “Hm. His loss.” Morningstar said as he turned back to O’Shay. “Yes. Such a precious predicament.” O’Shay said as Morningstar sat down in one of the seats in front of the desk. “I must say,” O’Shay began. “Your little show never ceases to amuse me,” he said smirking, motioning to the TV up in the corner. Morningstar turned to see the TV paused on a closeup on his face twisted in rage. The video was from their secret blog on the deep web. He chuckled. “People eat that shit up like a little blonde bitch in a Justin Bieber concert.” O’Shay smiled and handed him a stack of papers. “A scout liked what she saw with your match. As my two best fighters, she thought he was at an unfair advantage being so young. So… full of energy.” Morningstar took the papers and read the top of the first page. ''I'nternational '''M'ixed 'M'artial 'A'rts 'F'ederation''. “They wanted ‘’him,’’ but he wasn’t interested,” said O’Shay as Morningstar read over the terms. “So? What do you say? Want to represent part of next year's, tournament?” Morningstar looked up with a grin. “Hell, yes!” he said, pausing between those two words. He took a pen from the desk and began to sign his name. O’Shay smiled. ‘’Shame I can’t put my prized possession there. I’m sure he’ll change his mind,’’ he thought. Art pulled up onto his cul de sac and drove towards his house. It was the last one on the left before the curve. These houses were so far apart, that if two people were on their porch next to each other’s houses, you’d have to yell to make yourself heard. When Art got home, he went upstairs to the bathroom. He carefully locked the door behind him and took off his shirt. The White Alpha armor was great, but there are some things you can’t block. He looked at himself in the mirror. Tonight wasn’t that bad. Just a bruise on his back. He reached under the sink to get some ointment. A knock on the door made him jump, dropping the closed jar. “Art? You okay in there?” it was his mother. “Yeah, just about to take a shower.” “Good. Dinner’s on the stove!” she called out before footsteps led away from the door. Art stood back up and winced as the cold ointment touched his bruise. “How was work?” his father said as Art sat down next to him on the dining room table. “Easier today.” he said before taking a bite out of potato salad. His mother smiled as she watched him eat. Art kept chewing as he took an envelope out of his pocket and put it on the table. His mother smiled and put it in her own pocket. She didn’t need to open it to know what it was. After a few more moments of conversing, Art finished his dinner and got up to clear his plate. “Is it okay if I go to a party tomorrow night?” he asked them. His father sighed. “Go. You deserve it.” He said with a smile. “Thanks.” Art said as he walked back upstairs to his room. A few minutes later, as Art was doing his homework, he heard heavy metal from downstairs. That was odd. He walked down the stairs to see his parents dancing in the living room. She looked up and smiled. She held her hand out to him as an invitation. Art smiled and started to dance with them. “Remember, Art,” she yelled to him, “This is how you show those kids how the Croix’s dance!” “Plan too!” he yelled back, grinning. The Croix’s danced all day until nighttime. Credits Main * Finn Roberts as Moriarty Croix. * Catherine Keener as "Olympia". * Jameela Jamil as Yazmine Duncard. Recurring * David Dastmalchian as Alexander Freight. * Ty Simpkins as Paul. Guest Stars * Hannibal Buress as Rutilio Sergio. * Dolph Lundgren as Maximillian Morningstar. * Scott Charles Marvin as Bobby. Locations Used * Unnamed Clinic. * The Clink. * Apex Flight High School. * Nemesis. * Croix Household. Episode Notes * Pilot episode. * Length: 10 Pages, Times New Roman, Font 12. * Flashbacks took place Thursday, October 26th, 2018.